Inside Out
by 20thcenturygirl
Summary: Dan & Blair during the summer after Season 4 - with the difference that Vanessa never found or published 'Inside' so it's still Dan's secret. For now.
1. Chapter 1

**So this is my first fan fic and I was surprised by how much fun it was to write...**

**It's set in the summer after Season 4 - with the difference that Vanessa never found or published 'Inside' so it's still Dan's secret. For now.**

**Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Inside Out - Chapter One

It's that time of the night when he wonders why he does this to himself. Past 4 a.m. and his eyes are sore and his mouth is dry and he needs to sleep.

He knows this.

He also knows that the next day he'll be able to see everything clearly. He'll cringe at his dumb, servile last-night-self, the self that doesn't even remember to drink or to breathe properly, sitting transfixed by the screen. He'll promise himself, solemnly swear, not to do it again. That's Good-Cop-Dan. Soon after that, Bad-Cop-Dan will be along to remind him he's a joke and a disappointment and a failure.

He knows this.

But right now, he can't stop. Right now, he needs to answer Blair.

Her last message sits taunting him:

**Humphrey, what should she do?**

He stares at the characters. They're just Helvetica. They're just 12pt. They're just black. So why can he see light swimming through them? Why does it look like they're smiling at him? Because he's exhausted. (That's the lie.) Because she wrote them. (That's the truth.)

**Humphrey, it's rude to ignore a princess.**

He doesn't hesitate.

_**You're not a princess yet.**_

Oops. Should have hesitated. He's sure she'll spot the extra venom in that little shot of Times New Roman. (It's his typeface of choice. Not the coolest but it's a classic, and he somehow finds it comforting.)

**A-ha! He deigns to speak.**

_**Apologies, your highness-to-be. I was actually concentrating on the movie.**_

As if.

**Well I'm glad to hear it. So then... what should she do?**

This is the excruciating routine. Every evening, Blair is busy with Monaco receptions and recitals and balls. And so he is free from her all day. But when night bleeds in on New York, she is waking up and she is bored and she is alone and she wants to watch films with him.

Finally his eyes actually turn to the film. It's the scene where Rochester is begging Jane not to leave him. He has seen this film before, and remembers thinking that of course Jane had to go, that she had been lied to and betrayed, that it was all quite straightforward. This time, even though he hasn't been concentrating on the story, he gets it. People love each other. People fuck up. Straightforward it is not.

He considers typing that thought out for Blair. No. Too self-indulgent. Instead:

_**She needs to be by herself.**_

**Just like she always has been? Do you actually have feelings, Humphrey?**

He smiles at the accusation. Does he have feelings? That would be a yes.

_**But it's not like it always has been. It's different now because... if you'll excuse the cheese... she's known love.**_

**Then how can you expect her to give that up? She could just kick that bitch out of the attic.**

_**She needs to be alone to see who she is, what she believes in.**_

**Who is she?**

He'd swear those three words are smaller and thinner and sadder than the rest of the conversation has been.

_**She has to figure that out. That's kinda the whole plot.**_

**I guess so.**

_**It's not so awful. She'll get her happy ending, when the time's right.**_

As he types this, Jane is trudging across the moors, finally collapsing under the storm smashing around her. She's desperate. And scared. And lonely. Yep, he's definitely getting it this time.

Neither of them writes another word till the film is over.

Watching the scenes where Jane is living with St. John Rivers and his sisters, Dan is reminded of rehearsing that play together, back in high school. It was all repressed desires; stifled dreams; doing what one thinks one is meant to. He remembers a particular rehearsal, one where the director was discussing secrets and lies and how they weigh upon us. He asked them: what's the most important thing in a relationship? With no hesitation, Dan had declared: "Honesty". Blair, in an unheard-of show of agreement, nodded her head. Maybe they were only teenagers but they knew about these essential truths, these maxims to live and love by. Or so he had thought. Until the director had looked at them with pity, shaking his head. "The most important thing in a relationship", he had said, "is to be kind to each other."

That simple idea had consumed Dan for the rest of the rehearsal. And he remembers suspecting it had the same effect on Blair, because she was different for the remainder of the evening, not rolling her eyes at him even once.

He wills himself into the present because finally she's back:

**So there's her happy ending.**

_**I hope so. And you? Are you satisfied?**_

An eternity. And then:

**I have to go. They're bringing my lunch.**

_**OK. When will**_

She answers before he can finish:

**See you Humphrey.**

She has logged off. Leaving only those three words. Words it would be impossible to see as anything other than functional. But he's good at impossible. So he sees light swimming through them.

Very gently, fearing the pain in his joints if he stands too suddenly, Dan rolls his chair back and stretches his arms high above him, yawning like an animal. He would never have yawned like that if she was still online, because somehow she would just know, wouldn't she? He smiles a little at the thought and at his own silliness.

Just as he is about to shut the laptop and finally go to bed, he remembers that he hasn't e-mailed her. She has invented strict rules that once they've watched a film, he must send her his score plus a three-word summary. She's compiling them into some kind of database - he doesn't really get it but it's her system and it's weird and it's cute.

Today's the first day of July so he starts a new document. And he types:

_Film: Jane Eyre - Score: B+ - Summary: Equality fixes everything_

He saves the new document and drags it into an email, giving it the subject line "Here's to the next month." He's seriously tired now. So he raises his aching body before he can do a spell-check. Clicks on 'send' before even glancing at the message again. And shuffles to his bedroom before he can spot that he has in fact attached two documents, and that the second is called "INSIDE - Fifth Draft."

TBC

(I think the next chapter will be Blair's POV.)


	2. Chapter 2

**OK, first of all, to those who left reviews of Chapter 1: t****hank you! Y**ou are gorgeous shiny stars and I would absolutely positively not have carried on without your feedback. 

**Sorry I couldn't get this done sooner - I found myself obsessing over trying to fix every damn mistake those silly writers have made and that way madness lies. So have stripped it back instead.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Inside Out - Chapter Two

He doesn't need to know.

There's no reason for her to tell him. She called Serena the day that it happened. After a week she admitted it to her mother. And pretty soon they'll be coming clean to the press. So it's not like she has a need to share.

Really, he doesn't need to know. It wouldn't make any difference.

She frowns at the laptop. Just minutes earlier she had frantically slammed it shut, as the urge to tell him prickled her like a rash. She had fortified herself against it and now he's gone. Sound asleep no doubt. Still, as she thinks back to the two hours they ever so slightly just shared together, it feels like he somehow knows. Knows that she didn't really have to log off to go eat; knows that she panicked that she might blurt it all out; knows that she and Louis broke up weeks ago.

* * *

On her fifth morning in Monaco she had woken up, kicked back the 800 thread count satin duvet, and fixed him immediately with a serious look. Louis sat up against his plump, ivory, goose-down pillows, put his hand on her cheek and asked her what was wrong.

"Everything just feels weird", she said carefully, unsure that she was speaking English.

He stared at her. Wrapped her hands in his. She had time to take in the remarkable warmth in his eyes before he spoke.

"I know", he said gently. "This isn't working, is it?"

She blinked at him slowly. "I meant I think I have food poisoning."

That was when she vomited. Partly from undercooked chicken. Mostly from relief.

* * *

Louis was an excellent nurse. As she recovered, he knew exactly when she wanted attention and when she preferred to be left alone. Now that she didn't have to fret about why his skin on hers left her cold, she could really appreciate a hug from him. She enjoyed his company more than she ever did when they were trying to live happily ever after. That was a five-year-old's dream. Now she felt like a grown-up. A grown-up facing life at its messiest.

She learned all sorts of things about him that they had never discussed before. (Whirlwind romances don't leave much time for frivolities like discovering who the other person is.) For one, he had what sounded to her like a very unresolved crush on a childhood friend. She had encouraged him to do something about it, but he kept brushing it off. Some people's capacity for denial was just silly.

* * *

Blair has always hated for anyone to see her cry. She hates the crying itself, but having to share it makes her feel even more vulnerable and out of control. That's not so unusual. Who wants to be seen at their snottiest and most pathetic?

But what's more unusual is that she also hates to be seen being hopeful; and these days she's often at risk. If anyone saw her simply brimming with joy - excited at the thought of a new day, smiling at her own reflection, painting her own toe-nails because it's actually kind of fun - then they would just be waiting to pity her when it all came crashing down, some time soon. So she keeps it contained when anyone else is in the room. But secretly - and it's becoming more and more of a problem - she feels excited and full of light.

The problem is that she can see options. Go back to school, follow up on that architecture class she had so liked. Or get another internship, anywhere really, it just needs to be out there in the actual real world. Travel to places she has chosen herself, where she doesn't know anyone. Date someone who doesn't make sense.

But. He doesn't need to know.

* * *

Now it really is time for lunch, and Blair is making Louis blush by bringing up the girl again.

"You're a prince. Can't you just decree that she go on a date with you?"

"I don't think that could be legally enforced."

Hmm. Good company, but still a lousy sense of humor.

"Just woo her already. Start with the photos of you looking sad about those orphans."

"Blair, I _was_ sad. And she's seen them. She's seen everything. She's always been there, like Serena or Dan with you."

Bair narrowed her eyes.

"Dan? Dan hasn't always been there. He's an interloper. Like one of those seasonal coffees they bring out. It's not even supposed to last." (_And it tries too hard_.)

"My mistake. I thought you'd always known him."

"Hardly." (_He crawled in one time when no-one was looking_.)

"But you talk to him every day?"

"He never has anything to do. That's why he's called 'Lonely Boy_'_." (_It's very convenient_.)

"So what does he think?'

"About what?" (_About me?_)

"About what you should do next."

"He wouldn't understand." (_He's the only one who would_.)

"That's a shame."

"Why? He doesn't need to know." (_Oh._) (_Oh god._) (_He needs to know._)

Louis pretends not to notice that she is smiling.

* * *

He needs to know, and she's ready.

She opens the laptop.

_'_Here's to the next month_'_. He's e-mailed her. Wait. Why is there a second attachment? When she opens it, it's not what she expected. And then it is.

* * *

She can take him calling Serena _perfect_. She can take him calling her _sparkling_. But for some reason, when she gets to the part where he calls her _the first thing that ever really happened to me_, Blair has to stop reading.

So far, he has labelled _Clair_, her own obvious alter-ego, _intimidating_ and _inscrutable_. That's as much as she needs to know. Sure, these are the words of _Dylan_, not Dan, but she's read enough to understand that there is no difference. Humphrey is not, it turns out, a bad writer. But he sucks at fiction. This is his life, etched out in ugly old Times New Roman for all to see. For her to see.

Why? Why send this to her, without warning or explanation? Were they getting too close? Does he want to remind her that, no matter what goes on between them, everything comes back to Serena for him? As if she couldn't remember that on her own. She'd never thought he could be cruel, but that's what this feels like. Of course. Just like always. Give to someone, care about them - get back cruelty.

As she drags the file to the trash, she reassures herself that there's just one thing that makes it OK. No-one had seen that she was almost happy.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Again, thank you so so much for the reviews of the other chapters - it's seriously inspiring to read them.**

**Enjoy. ****I swear it's going somewhere!**

* * *

Inside Out - Chapter Three

This is all too familiar. Waiting. Wondering. Fretting.

Where _is_ she?

On the first day, he decides it's time to catch up with current affairs. Stretching out with a selection of newspapers, this seems like a pretty decent distraction. There are wars and elections and attacks and scandals and lives happening out there. He's a writer, he's going to get inspired goddammit. But first he's just going to read one more time the article about the love letter that finally reached its destination over 40 years after it was sent, when both the sender and the woman he was in love with had already died, so only her sister survived to read it; and she revealed how the woman had waited and waited for this letter, but when it never came she gave up and banished him from her thoughts for the rest of her life.

Eventually he has to rip up the page so that he can't read it anymore.

On the second day, it occurs to him that he can still watch the assigned DVD, even if she has stood him up again. It's the original 'Planet of the Apes' and he's sorry if this makes him a philistine but it's kind of awful. And he's certain that she'd agree. 'Humphrey, extended metaphors full of scathing social commentary are all well and good, but if I really wanted to see gangs of self-important, beardy guys running around a ruined New York, I'd just come to Williamsburg.'

That's what she'd say. That is, if she weren't an imaginary voice in his ridiculous head.

On the third day, he's measuring out the hours by re-cataloguing the vinyl collection that's so so pretty, so so impractical. He tries alphabetical by artist. Alphabetical by title. By genre. By date. By color. By how much each band would hate him if they knew him, because he is the king of the losers.

Vinyl is so mean.

On the fourth day he gives up and just thinks about her with no attempt to suppress any of it. Last time she went off-radar was after the kiss, when they were getting too close. Or something like that. Is that what happened? It's all kind of hazy now, since she went off to play Barbie in the pink castle in the clouds with the dumb French Ken doll and that's a lame story and who would read that and he wrote a way better one that totally should have happened except it sucked and it was stupid.

He should probably drink less whisky.

* * *

When he wakes up, it's to the sight of a familiar pair of concerned eyes.

"Eric?"

"Rough day?" is the soothingly non-judgmental reply.

Outside it's already dark, but Eric has been thoughtful enough not to turn on any lights. The room, pierced only by streetlamps, is bobbing up and down like they're at sea.

Dan tries briefly to sit up, and when that doesn't work he settles for propping his aching neck against a cushion. Eric, cautiously perched on the neighbouring armchair, waits for a defence of some sort. Dan pauses before offering one.

"My head is stupid."

Eric makes sure not to look even a tiny bit amused.

"That's just temporary. It'll be back to full brilliance by tomorrow, you'll see."

Dan just shakes his head. Then stops when it makes him feel even more dizzy. Eric considers saying nothing, but can't restrain his instinct to empathise.

"Is this a writer's block thing?", he asks.

Dan is studying a loose thread hanging from the elbow of his shirt, and says nothing.

Eric presses on.

"A lack-of-sunlight thing?"

Hypnotized by the thread, he's carefully winding it around his finger.

"It's the other thing, isn't it?"

Dan yanks hard, snapping the thread. He finally raises his eyes in defeat.

"Why doesn't she want to watch 'Death in Venice' with me?"

He sounds unbelievably pathetic.

"Oh boy."

"Everything was good... we had a thing... it was a weird thing... but it was a thing."

"I know."

"So what did I do wrong?"

Dan looks at him so pleadingly that Eric is, for the first time, taken aback by the intensity of what he's feeling. He concentrates on maintaining a calm voice, like you're meant to with an agitated animal.

"I'm sure it's not you. She probably just has a lot to figure out."

"Yeah." He pouts. "The pink castle cloud wedding. They need to figure out whether the ponies should be made of candy-floss or sugar-plums. Wait, what are sugar-plums?"

Eric stares back at him in genuine confusion. He's starting to wonder whether Dan drank enough to induce amnesia. "Why are you still obsessing about that?"

With a dramatic flourish of his arms, like a tennis player preparing to serve, Dan starts to rant: "Because in two months she'll be married! I would love to forget about that. But it's not working."

Something suddenly clicks for Eric and he puts a hand on Dan's shoulder.

"Wait, are you serious?"

"It's a serious, serious, candy-cane wedding."

Eric exhales deeply before saying what he now suspects will be momentous words.

"Dan, she broke up with Louis right after they went away. She didn't tell you?"

Dan is suddenly, strangely still. Eric feels heavy with responsibility.

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew. Serena told me about it weeks ago."

Now Dan is not still.

Dan has to stand up.

Dan has to sit down.

Dan has to lie down.

As ever, Eric's poker face is impeccable.

Dan interrogates the coffee table, like a bumbling cartoon detective trying to crack a murder mystery.

"It doesn't make sense... weeks ago?... the whole time she was... but then she... why keep it secret?"

The poker face is in some danger.

"Did you say something to her? About... how she smells nice?"

"Of course not. Do I look like someone with even the tiniest shred of courage?"

Eric declines to answer, but within seconds he wishes he had, because there's something dawning on Dan's face and it looks a little like mania.

"Dan?"

"I'm calling her!" he shouts, fumbling in his pocket for his 'phone.

Eric stands up and puts out his hands as if pacifying a confused bear.

"I don't know if now is the time..."

"I'm calling her! And I'm gonna ask her! Why she doesn't think she can talk to me! About all the things!"

"The things?"

"The things, the real stuff, the feelings! I want to talk about the feelings."

Eric tries to wrestle the 'phone from his grasp but Dan slips away, perching himself on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. He searches for her number and as he waits for it to connect, he contorts himself into a posture that's clearly supposed to be dignified - worthy of Blair's approval. Eric suppresses a laugh as he looks at the reality of a dishevelled heap of half-flannel, half-human.

It rings for a few seconds and then Dan speaks.

"Blair?"

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you very very much for the previous reviews and please keep them coming :)**

**This chapter is sort of exciting for me because our troubled twosome actually speak to each other! And totally mess with each other's heads! Hooray! Enjoy.**

* * *

Inside Out - Chapter Four

She doesn't mean to pick up.

It's been four days - or something like that, it's not like she knows precisely - and she hasn't missed him. She's been busy. She's been catching up with current affairs. She's been watching the pre-assigned films alone and enjoying them plenty, thank you very much. (Except _Planet of the Apes_, which she'd be happy to tear apart all day, but that would involve talking to him and she has zero interest in doing that). She's been re-arranging, re-labelling, color coding the documents on her laptop, and she feels cleansed.

So when her 'phone rings at 4 a.m., and she leans over in confusion and observes the caller's name, she doesn't mean to pick up.

* * *

"Blair?"

It's imperative that she sound like she knows what she's doing. Instantly, she chooses her tactic. "Oh Humphrey. I'm so glad it's you!"

He's clearly thrown. "Wait, you are?"

She swore to herself that she wouldn't take his bait, wouldn't talk about his pathetic book, wouldn't expose her wounds; but she can't hold back. "Of course! I assume you're calling to fill me in on some detail you left out? Did you want to tell me how life-affirming Serena's knee-caps are?"

She waits for his comeback. "Blair, have you been drinking?"

"No!" Suddenly she's suspicious. "Have you?"

He hiccups. "Sometimes."

She doesn't like or understand this game, and decides to take charge. "So would you like to tell me why you're calling me in the middle of the night?"

"I was thinking about you."

She notes how ironic this is, since she hasn't thought about him in four days (or whatever it's been). Still, she wonders where this is going.

"I wanted to check you were okay. You were getting married. You were gonna be a princess and live in a pink cloud. And now you're not. And you told everyone but me." He's talking ridiculously fast. "And I don't get it. And I want to know what kind of friends we are if you can't tell me about stuff like this."

He knows. She considers who might have told him. A vision of blonde fills her head and quickly escalates as she pictures sweaty summer nights in the city, Serena hanging out with Dan, gossiping with Dan, shaking their heads over Blair's misadventures, sharing laughs, lingering looks and then kisses. _Well, so what? That's exactly how it's supposed to be._ In fact that's probably why he'd sent her the book, to tell her in his abysmally pretentious way that he and Serena were back on.

He's waiting. "So really, what kind of friends are we?"

She concentrates on sounding unruffled. "I guess I'd say we're the kind that use second-rate prose ramblings to communicate, due to being too cowardly to do it properly."

"What ramblings?"

"Ugh, so you're just going to bury your head in the sand? You are so transparent, Humphrey."

She knows exactly what he's going to say next. "Blair, why are you mixing metaphors?"

Damn him. "Don't patronize me, it's not like your writing technique is so flawless."

She can tell that he's smiling and it infuriates her. "You know what? I am totally, utterly lost. Can we just start again?"

She marvels at how long he can keep up the bewildered act. "No we cannot! In fact, we're done." Her attempt at unruffled has flown out the window. "You've laid out the situation with Serena. I get it. Go do whatever you want. I wish you all the happiness and fat babies in the world."

He pauses before answering her. "What does Serena have to do with anything?"

She laughs abruptly. "Oh, silly me. It's _Sabrina_, isn't it? Truly, she is a feat of the imagination. You should be very proud."

He pauses again. Seconds pass and still no reply. It's such rare behavior on his part that it's sort of fascinating - but it's also rude.

She prompts him, exasperation in her voice. "Are you still there?"

Silence. In frustration she moves the 'phone away from her ear and looks to see that the call is still connected. It is. She will _not_ sound agitated. "Well I'm hanging up now, thanks for such a stimulating chat."

FInally, he's spluttering something out. "Blair, I'm really confused. Is this a dream? Usually dream-Blair is easier to get along with."

"Oh for god's sake, how drunk _are_ you?"

He sounds - could it be? - terrified. "But how can you know about Sabrina? No-one knows about that."

She shakes her head and tries to remember why she hasn't hung up yet. "Right. Well maybe next time, don't send me 320 pages of tedious, sub-adolescent whinings about things I'm _not_ supposed to know."

"Oh this isn't good", is his slow - and perhaps queasy? - reply. The next thing she hears is a huge crash, then what sounds like the 'phone skidding across several tiles, and then a strange voice repeating his name again and again. Whatever's happening, she doesn't like it.

This time she really is going to hang up, when the mysterious voice speaks right into her ear. "Hi Blair."

"Eric?" _Why is Eric there?_

"Yep. How's it going? Having a good trip?" His last word is punctuated by the nearby sound of a laptop chiming as it starts up.

She's starting to feel humiliated. What if everyone is in on this - some weird, convoluted joke at her expense? "Eric, what is going on there? Has Humphrey lost his mind?"

She hears a short but frantic burst of typing before Eric replies. "I really wouldn't like to say. I think he's just tired." Eric - she has to hand it to him - knows how to act unruffled.

"So he's not going to explain himself?" Her nostrils flare sharply.

"He sort of looks like he needs some alone time right now." But she can't hear Eric properly over Dan's long, wretched moan and then his voice whimpering the words 'it's attached' over and over.

This is beyond boring now. Maybe he's snivelling over Serena. She really doesn't care. The distance between them has never seemed greater.

She sniffs loudly. "Well, you can tell him not to call again. I had no interest in talking to him in the first place." Eric doesn't say anything. "Good bye Eric."

"Bye." Then very softly: "Hey Blair?"

She sighs. "What?"

"So how come you picked up?"

She hangs up instantly.

* * *

The following day, when Blair boards the 'plane bound for JFK, only Dorota knows she's coming. She hopes it will be a long time before she has to deal with the rest of them.

It isn't.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

Inside Out - Chapter Five

Eric watches as he deletes all of it. He's tried to stop him. He's pleaded with him, insisted that he'll regret it, that it's a waste of his talent, that his story means something despite the real world outcome.

Dan spits back that it means only that he was delusional. His eyes blank, his fingers obliterate in an instant what they crafted with such painstaking care for over a year. He's sober by now. Eric reluctantly leaves. This is a low.

* * *

One sleepless night he considers contacting her to apologize. Could he get away with a brief _I didn't mean it _text? Stretch to an _It wasn't what it sounded lik_e e-mail? He curses the non-existence of a Hallmark card bearing the sentiment: _I'm sorry I inadvertently sent you a manuscript revealing that I'm in love with you - please forgive me._

Nothing can fix this. He needs to start forgetting.

* * *

He starts forgetting at the Sunshine Cinema on the Lower East Side, on an afternoon so absurdly hot that if everything burst into flame and burned until the whole world turned to ash, it would be a relief.

He has the pick of any seat in the auditorium, and chooses one in the center of the center. He indulges the sensation of being adrift in the darkness, of ceasing to exist and no-one knowing about it. The eager air conditioning doesn't halt the sweat forming on his bare limbs, nor deter his tank top from practically fusing to his skin. But since it's dark and he's the only person there, it really doesn't matter.

The start of the movie is loud and unrelenting, and he marvels that this is going to work, that he has actually found a way to get distracted. He congratulates himself, and it's the first time in weeks that he's directed something inward that isn't self-hatred.

His very next thought is that nothing this terrible has ever happened to him in his life and that, impossibly, the heat has surged again and he does not know how to breathe and why did no-one ever teach him? and this is how he will die.

Because he's not the only person there. She's sitting four rows in front of him and about eight seats to the right, her elbows slightly elevated to avoid contact with the germ-ridden armrests. She's wearing a simple white dress that ties at the shoulders. Her hair is swept to one side in a loose ponytail. It is physically painful to look at her so, turning his head in the other direction, he shields his face with his right hand.

Placing his other hand on his ribs, he attempts to visualize the lungs that must be there, that have always helped him to breathe before and hence survive quite a few excruciating situations. He remembers his bottle of water and takes some desperate mouthfuls. Then, having accomplished a few stunted breaths, he finds some focus. He has two options. One: he can stay exactly where he is, make no sudden movements, survive the movie, then vanish before she knows he was there. Two: there are exits either side of him, and he could make a run for the one -

"Don't you dare."

Her voice is low but clear, because she's now sitting next to him. Her eyes are fixed on the screen and he senses that there will be trouble if he tries to turn his head towards her. She smells sweet, like honeysuckle, and he cringes in awareness of his own clammy body. He wonders if her eyes are the same, or if they're harder these days. But he stays entirely still, his hand continuing to cover his face, and he burns and burns.

"Why are you breathing so loudly?" She whispers with disdain. Then, eyes unwavering from the screen: "Oh, do you like Ryan Gosling _that much_?"

"Who doesn't like Ryan Gosling?", he croaks out, relieved that he is able to toss anything back at her.

"You're terrible at this", comes her abrupt reply. "It's absurd that you think you can be here. So evidently we need to establish the rules of the game."

"Game?" Reasoning that she can't expect him to hear her whispers properly from his current position, he gradually eases his head back to center, hand still on his cheek, while his eyes turn again to the action unfolding in front of them. A spectacular car crash, as it happens.

"Rule One: afternoon excursions to art-house theaters are now my territory, which _you_ cannot violate."

"I didn't know you were on this continent." The hand on his face moves to the cold bottle of water, determined to find relief as he feels the sweat pooling around his shoulder blades.

"Regardless, you have no business being here."

Without moving his head, he manages to shift his eyes so that he can see her hands folded in her lap. Flickers of light from the screen illuminate her in little fragments. A tiny silk bow at her waist, one thumb pressing into the other, the space where her engagement ring isn't. Before she's engulfed in shadows once more, he realizes he was wrong. Her dress isn't white, it's light yellow.

"Do you understand?" she hisses, as he snaps his eyes back to the movie.

_Does he understand?_ He does. He understands that reading all the exhaustive details of his affection, his longing, his aching for her, repulsed her so much that she now requires him to agree to what will basically be a restraining order. He understands that not only does he not get to be with her, to love her (and he never really kidded himself that it could happen - writing it was really its only chance to exist), but that he has to lose her as a friend too. He feels it so sharply that he can't speak.

When he doesn't answer, she sighs dramatically. "Let me clarify. You have no business being here. Your business is skipping through fields of daisies with Serena. Please allow us _intimidating_, _inscrutable_ types our private cultural pursuits."

He remembers now. During the horrific conversation when he'd discovered that she had - _oh god another wave of nausea and fire_ - read it, she had kept fixating on Serena. In his panic, he had forgotten how little sense that made. Curiosity halts his misery. "I know this won't win any prizes for originality but again I've got to say: I have no idea what we're talking about. How is Serena relevant?"

"She's your girlfriend."

Finally, he turns his head and looks directly at her. Though he can only see the left side of her face, and it's veiled in darkness, it's obvious she's frowning. Her chin is tilted up slightly in defiance and she's exactly the same and it makes him want to smile. For a brief moment, he can pretend she never read it. He feels so warm that his mind seems to be caving in on itself. He can see another Dan, a bold Dan, one who ignores the furnace raging around them and is slowly leaning forward to stroke his hand across her bare shoulder, cautiously undoing the bow so that the flimsy straps fall loosely away, tracing his lips along her neck and into the hollow below her collarbone. And meanwhile maybe she's melting into him and closing her eyes and sighing blissfully. Or maybe she's leaping out of her seat and smacking him across the face. Either way, he reflects that it might be worth it.

"Well isn't she?" Her insistence wakes him from his daydream. He still feels woozy.

"What makes you think that? Did Serena tell you that?"

She still won't look at him. "No. She didn't have to. And don't talk so loudly. Have some respect."

"Okay," he replies in an over-the-top whisper. "But she's not my girlfriend."

For the first time, she takes her eyes off the screen, looking down instead at her hands. "Oh. Well, I'm sure she will be any minute now. Maybe _that_ was your intended message, and I jumped ahead somewhat."

He shakes his head. "Message?"

"_You_ forced me to read that interminable catalog of what a goddess she is. That was _your_ move."

He thinks he detects a flush in her cheeks as he wipes the perspiration from his forehead. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me that after reading it, your analysis of the text is that I have feelings for Serena?"

"Not an assignment that took very long. God, has this weather boiled your brain?" She blows out a short breath in frustration. It's the first time she's acknowledged the overpowering heat, and he's glad that her self-control is starting to dissolve. "So you don't need me as a friend any more. I don't care. But we need to get the rules straightened out."

"I can't even... did you even finish the book?"

She's infuriated now and jumps to her feet to better chastise him. "Hey, I got it. From the very first mention of _cascading golden waves_."

Instantly he is standing up too. "Wait. Blair. Did you _not_ finish the book?" It's the first time he's said her name. He hopes he made it sound like any other word.

"Why, did I miss a twist? Oh please don't tell me you described your future children, it's too much. I just had lunch." Finally, she's looking at him, albeit like she used to four years ago.

On the screen above them, the two actors are locked in a stalemate, gazing at each other, smiling at each other, neither willing to give up on a moment that seems like it's never going to end. But Dan doesn't see this because he's staring at Blair. And Blair doesn't see it because she's staring back at him. Neither of them are smiling. He muses to himself that the projectionist must be thoroughly entertained by the show they're putting on. The last time he felt this hot, this impassioned, this confused, they were standing just like this in her foyer and her eyes were flashing and he was about to reach out and touch her.

He runs his hand through his hair. "No, Blair. That wasn't the twist."

**TBC**

_**Well, sitting here for hours thinking about hot, sweaty, angsty Dair in a movie theater has of course been a great burden on me - please leave reviews to ease my pain! :)**_


	6. Chapter 6

Inside Out - Chapter Six

When Blair Waldorf was five years old, she had a stuffed horse named _Horse_, who took pride of place among the other toys on her bed, and in her arms each night. His fur was soft yet slightly prickly, and she used to stroke him incessantly, to the extent that he started to become patchy (and thus sadly unsuitable to remain in the role of Chief Toy).

Now Dan Humphrey is standing awkwardly in front of her in the dark theater, rubbing a hand compulsively back and forth through the stubble on his face, and it's taking her back to the soothing, scratchy sound of her horse's fur, lulling her into blackness. The familiarity is unnerving. What would happen if she reached out and touched his face with her own hand? Disappointment, probably. It's always disappointment. Besides, she won't be doing that since she pretty much despises him. With his passive-aggressive three-hundred-and-twenty page text documents and now, his attempts at retraction. Not to mention the way he's gazing at her like he has no plans to ever stop. He's impossible.

She's grasping for a way to get things back on track, and settles on looking pointedly at her watch. "Well, Humphrey, I'm truly sorry for any offence I've caused by neglecting to finish your magnum opus, but can we please move on to Rule Two now?"

He shakes his head. "Blair, we don't need any rules. There is no game." Leaning alarmingly close to her, he persists. "Do you think it's possible that for once in your life you could be wrong about something?"

She takes a step back from his looming frame, damp with sweat and unnecessarily muscular in that tank top. "Yes! I was!" Her poise is undermined by the shrill sound of her voice. "About you. About being your friend."

She notices that his jaw has tightened and he seems to pick his words slowly, warily. "What you read... it wasn't what you think."

"So it's _not_ an undignified love letter to an elusive Upper East Side princess?"

His short laugh surprises her, and she can't help but feel glad that the tension has been broken for a moment. If maybe he could stop with the gazing for just a few seconds, her composure would have a chance at being fully restored.

"Well... it wasn't about Serena. I don't feel that way about her and haven't for a long time. At the start, yes, she meant a lot to me but - "

She folds her arms. "On page one you said you were addicted to her."

"Yeah, in the toxic sense."

"Britney Spears, Humphrey? Seriously?"

It's definitely not funny, even though his expression indicates that he hoped otherwise.

He shrugs. "Well, that's how it was. But I kind of went through some hardcore rehab." He pauses to take a gulp of water. "And that's what the book was really about."

The way they're standing, silhouetted against the cinema screen, is starting to feel excessively dramatic, so with a sigh she sits down again. Smoothing her dress over her thighs, she contemplates why he would have wanted her to read a story about getting over Serena.

She frowns at him. "You know, you have some nerve, standing there calling my best friend toxic."

It's hard to tell whether Dan hesitates because he knows she's right, or because the scene of a character being shot dead through a window is a little noisy to talk over.

He sinks back into his seat, without ever taking his eyes off her.

"That is _not_ what I'm saying. I care about her. You know that. But when we were together it was always sort of harmful to both of us." He holds his hands up. "Hey, I share the blame."

"So you didn't libel her? Because that would be just as bad as being obsessed with her."

"See, this is where I get confused. If I _were_ obsessed with her, why would you find that so terrible? I thought you were past your conviction that I bear contagious diseases?"

A memory from high school washes over her - that play, when she was forced to rehearse with him night after night. He was always looking at her and smiling relentlessly and just _saying things_, and she found it so acutely annoying that most of the time she felt like they were in kindergarten and she wanted to push him over.

"He is literally the last person on earth I want to do this with!", she had raged at Penelope one lunchtime. As it happened, Dan had overheard. He sidled up to her, clearly relishing her outrage.

"_Literally_, Blair? There's _literally_ no-one in the whole world who disturbs you more than me?"

"You heard me."

"Not Osama Bin Laden? Not Lindsay Lohan?"

She scowled silently at him, but he couldn't stop himself. "I'm just saying, I thought you of all people wouldn't succumb to over-use of that word."

That time, she had actually gone ahead and pushed him. Not _over_. It was just a shove. But he did teeter for a second or two.

Didn't make him any less annoying though.

She ignores his question and poses one of her own, laced with disdain. "So what you wanted me to read about was your Serena rehabilitation program?"

He looks as if he's just eaten something rancid. "No. I didn't. I really, really didn't. Blair, I sent it to you by mistake."

"Who did you mean to send it to?"

"No, I didn't mean to send it to anyone. Ever. It being read at all... that's basically the manifestation of my worst nightmare." As he grows quiet, his eyes seem to be darkening. Talk about melodramatic.

"How peculiar. Shouldn't a writer be looking for readers?"

"Ordinarily, yes. But this is different. It's about my friends and family. And it has the potential to upset most of them. _Had_ the potential. I've deleted it now."

He turns away from her at last, wiping the moisture on his brow with his knuckles, and she sneaks the opportunity to look at him properly, lit in shifting slivers by the screen. There's the messy stubble, threatening to become a beard; fingernails bitten ragged; and a sort of emptiness in his eyes. He looks more drained than she's ever seen him. She has the confusing sensation of wanting to make it - if not better - at least not worse. It takes her a moment to dare herself.

"Well, I think it's silly."

"What is?"

"That you deleted it."

"Why?"

She swallows uneasily. "It seemed like it might have been... potentially... not bad."

He turns towards her again, cautiously, and says "Thank you."

A kind of calm has settled and they both look up at the screen again. Of course the story doesn't make the slightest bit of sense to either of them, as they've missed the majority of it, but it's still absorbing. Before long the scene shifts to an elevator. In a slow and hypnotic movement, almost dream-like, Ryan Gosling backs Carey Mulligan against the elevator wall, his hand skimming her waist, and proceeds to kiss the hell out of her. It's sudden. It's weird. It's insanely hot.

Watching this with him is strangely intolerable. She's no prude, and they've watched plenty of love scenes together in the past; but this feels different, and her heartbeat is becoming unreasonably rapid. She has to say something to lessen the tension.

"So how did _Clair_ feature after Chapter One?"

"It's gone. Can we just pretend it never existed?", he pleads. The pink of his cheeks is not, she feels certain, caused by the heat. He's blushing and she wants to know why.

"Did they become friends?"

"They're just made-up characters, Blair."

"Did they become friends?", she demands.

"Yes. They did." He's gritting his teeth.

On the screen, a brutal murder plays out.

Blair fiddles with her pony-tail. "And what was it like?"

"What do you mean?"

"What was the friendship like? What did he like about her?"

"It's kind of strange actually." He seems to be softening. She thinks she can detect a smile in his eyes. "At first, it was a challenge, and he liked that. And then... then it was easy, and he liked that even more."

"Not so _inscrutable_ then?"

He shakes his head and whispers "No."

"What happened to them?"

"They worked together a little. Argued with each other a lot. And there was some of this" - he gestures at their surroundings - "except they had way more respect for the movies and didn't talk all the way through them."

He flashes his goofy grin. Her stomach feels peculiar. "Did they stay friends?"

She can tell that he doesn't know how to answer. "In a way."

_What does that mean?_ An hour ago, Blair knew precisely what she thought of him and precisely what to do about it. He was callous and cowardly and in love with Serena, and she didn't want to know him anymore. But now she's utterly adrift. That's not him at all. He's exactly the same boy whose company she'd grown to cherish, exactly the same boy she pretended to feel nothing for after they kissed, exactly the same boy she was ready to admit that to before getting sidetracked by reading those confusing first pages. But she can't tell him any of this, because she doesn't know how he feels and she's not about to beg someone she cares about to say he feels the same way. She's been there. She's desperate to know how the book continued, but if she asks any more questions it will be obvious that she - well - she's not ready to risk that.

"Why didn't you tell me about Louis?"

He's peering at her so intently that the truth just tumbles out. "Because I was scared."

"But I would have understood."

"That's what I was scared of."

She did _not_ intend to say that out loud. His stupid, sensitive eyes had mesmerized her or something. As she jumps from her seat, Dan looks genuinely shocked.

"Blair Waldorf, did you forget your Number One Rule of Cinema-Going? You can't leave till the credits are over."

"Forget rules. You were right, they're not needed," she cries as she scurries to the aisle.

"Will you please have coffee with me?", he calls after her.

"I have to go. And you need a shower."

She breaks into a run.

* * *

Dinner is ready when she gets back to the penthouse. She eats in silence, not berating Dorota even once, which does not go unnoticed. Dorota does her best to avoid disturbing her all evening; but later, before saying good night, she can't hold back.

"Mr. Lonelyboy?", she asks gently.

"How did you know?" Blair's too surprised to deny it.

Dorota smiles guardedly, so as not to rile her. "When you have the big eyes, always Mr. Lonelyboy," she whispers.

* * *

After she's gone, Blair approaches her mirror guiltily and studies her own face. It's true. There's something there which she can't disguise. It's that goddamn hope again. Reflected in the mirror, she catches sight of the velvet box perched on top of her closet. She turns and reaches for it on tip-toes. Placing the box on the bed, she removes the lid and digs through the menagerie of toys until she finds it, just as sweet and damaged as she remembered: her horse. She lies down on top of the covers, curling him into her arms and stroking his beloved fur, whispering to her faithful old friend the truth, the truth that until this moment she has never dared to say, even in her own head:

_I'm in love with Dan Humphrey_.

**TBC**

* * *

_**Thanks for reading. I have *some* idea of how much longer this story should go on, but would be interested in your feedback before I decide.**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you all so much for the reviews and suggestions, they've been really fun to read. I will just say that when it comes to **_**Inside**_**, the file definitely doesn't exist on either of their computers, not in the trash, not nowhere :) Well I had to make it incredibly hard for myself, right? But I think I've cracked it now.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Inside Out - Chapter Seven

After their encounter Dan thinks about calling her every day, but he never does.

Because what would he say?

_*You didn't tell me it was over with Louis because you were scared that I would understand - what does that mean? _

_*Scared of what?_

_*Why did you run off?_

_*I love you so much it's ridiculous._

_*Oh this is Dan, by the way._

Her life has always been been infected with games and deceit and misunderstandings; the men who pursue her pushing her, shaking her, to do what they want her to, respond as they think she should, crushing her a little more every time. He'd just be another one of them if he says the things he yearns to. That isn't their thing. He was supposed to be the cure. He isn't going to make her hate him. (He hates himself enough.)

Besides, she knows where to find him, and maybe that day will come. But until then, he is going to leave her alone.

He pushes himself to write a story, and is amazed when he finds that it isn't about her.

* * *

After their run-in Blair considers storming over there every day, but she never does.

Because what would she say?

_*Your book was about you going through 'some hardcore rehab' - what does that mean?_

_*How does one attach a file by mistake anyway?_

_*If you don't tell me what happened to those characters I swear to God I will scream._

_*I love... the idea of you cutting your hair._

_*Why haven't you called me?_

They had always been frank with each other, something she suspects he had come to rely on as much as she had. He knew what he was getting with her. She'd just be thrusting drama and confusion at him - the things he loathes about her world - if she says the things she yearns to. That isn't their thing. She was supposed to be straightforward. She isn't going to make him hate her. (She hates herself enough.)

Besides, he knows where to find her, and maybe that day will come. But until then, she is going to leave him alone.

She's never had insomnia before. That time when she wouldn't get out of bed because of the - how to put it?, oh yes - _anomaly_ that took place, she still managed to sleep. Maybe because denial took up a lot of energy. But this isn't denial. She recognizes how she feels and chooses to reject it. This is a disowning.

When she finally gets a decent night's sleep, she is amazed to find her dreams aren't about him.

* * *

One humid evening, Dan collects Jenny from Grand Central Station. When she sees him she laughs like a kid and hugs him hard enough that it hurts a little. She's so excited to be back in the city that she convinces him they should walk the five miles home, allowing her to drink it all in. As they wander down Park Avenue, he lets her do all the talking, unable to resist studying her. His conclusion is that she's happy - not the scary, cracked-out kind of happy - but something peaceful. He is thrilled to see that whatever evil spell she was under has been broken.

* * *

Serena comes striding out of the elevator and into her foyer one evening, and Blair is surprised by how glad she is to see her. As Serena shrieks happily and wraps her tanned arms tightly around her, Blair thinks only fleetingly of the _perfect_ girl in his book. Then she banishes the thought and curls up next to the version made of actual flesh to hear all about her West Coast misadventures.

* * *

They're already crossing the bridge when Jenny asks if he has anything to tell her. From the way she says it, tilting her head in faux innocence, it's obvious that she knows at least something about the Blair situation.

"I thought you had sworn off Gossip Girl?", he asks, while trying to suppress the color rising in his cheeks.

"Oh I have," she insists. "Six months sober, actually."

"Impressive." And he means it. "So who's your source?"

She hesitates before wincing. "Eric."

He stops walking, stunned. When he speaks he sounds resigned. "I never took him for a traitor. I guess - "

"It wasn't his fault", she interrupts. "He was worried about you and he let it slip and I forced him to tell me everything he knew."

Slowly they start to walk again.

"I didn't even know you were on speaking terms," he says eventually.

"It's recent. And I have to admit, in terms of helping us re-connect, this crush of yours has provided a lot of conversation."

He looks away, self-conscious. "Crush? Is that what he called it?"

"Is he wrong? I thought he must be, but he sounded so certain."

He exhales loudly. "It's... complicated."

"Does she know?" Jenny is doing an excellent job of disguising the revulsion he knows she must be feeling.

"What?" His voice is strangled. "No, no, of course not."

"Why 'of course not'?"

"What, you're telling me you don't think me with her would be - you know - against nature?"

She bites her lip, unsure what he needs her to say. "I'm not suggesting it makes sense to me. Or that I think it's a good idea. But Dan, I have been there."

"What do you mean?"

"I was obsessed with Blair Waldorf before you ever were."

He smiles without meaning to. He's never thought of it like that before.

She continues. "And I also know what it's like to hate yourself for it. But you don't have to."

They're at the loft now, and he opens the door for her, says 'Welcome home' with genuine warmth, makes her something to eat, keeps the conversation steered firmly away from his _crush_. But later, staring at his bedroom ceiling, he takes something she said and stores it somewhere deep and permanent inside him. _He doesn't have to hate himself for loving her_.

* * *

Hearing every gory detail about Serena's new romance is thoroughly entertaining. Blair would be perfectly happy to focus on it all night, but finally Serena grasps her hand and makes her best I'm-here-for-you face.

"B, I'm proud of you. I mean about Louis. You've been really brave."

_Ha!_, Blair thinks. _If you only knew_.

"And I'm sorry if I haven't been entirely supportive lately."

Blair squeezes the fingers holding her own hand hostage. "Don't be silly. You've been occupied with your own catastrophes. Random jobs landing in your lap. Love triangles with hot surfers."

Serena laughs in that long-suffering way. "No, I mean before that. Like with the whole Dan situation."

"Dan _situation_?", Blair huffs. "I don't think that met the requirements for being a _situation_. It was more of a blip."

She prods gently. "But didn't you say you had a connection?"

"Severed", Blair snaps.

"Oh. I just assumed that he would be... around for you." Serena smiles, hoping to pacify her. "He seemed to be getting good at that."

"Nope", she lies. "He's off languishing in his garret, I imagine."

Serena says one more thing before they change the subject, and seems to struggle to get it out. Blair isn't sure whether it's hard for her to say, or if she thinks it's hard for Blair to hear.

"I just want you to know that if he was... around for you... that would be okay."

Blair doesn't react, doesn't betray any signs of the current swelling beneath the surface.

* * *

Eric comes over to see Jenny the next day. The three of them eat noodles and talk about everything and nothing. Eric waits till Jenny takes a 'phone call and wanders out of earshot before asking Dan if he's okay.

"What do you mean?" He looks nonplussed.

"I mean, things were looking a little too Hemingway last time I was here."

Dan smirks. "I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."

"You could do that." He pauses. "Hey, I'm sorry I mentioned it to Jenny. Honestly, I was worried about you."

"I appreciate that, but I'm doing just fine. First-rate. Really." He can no longer look him in the eye.

Eric leans closer, lowering his voice. "It's just...I heard she's back. And I thought maybe you could iron things out if you talked in person?"

"Yeah, we tried that. I think it actually made things _more_ ambiguous."

Eric narrows his eyes. "She's still mad about what you wrote?"

"Sort of." He wants, urgently, to talk about something else, but Eric isn't giving him an easy way out. He sighs laboriously. "Turns out she didn't exactly read it."

"Huh?"

"The beginning kind of gave her the wrong idea and she went all, you know, Blair-zilla about it."

Eric shrugs. "Can't you get her to read the rest?"

"I'm not sure she'd like the rest any better," Dan replies queasily.

"Isn't it worth a try?"

"Maybe. But I deleted it anyway, remember? So no speculation necessary."

He can tell that Eric knows he doesn't want to talk about this any more, yet he still isn't giving up. "Before you - "

But it doesn't matter, because Jenny comes bounding back into the room, ending the conversation. "Hey guys, want to go to a gig?"

* * *

The heatwave finally breaks. A light wind in the air and an almost imperceptible rumble herald the approach of a storm.

Blair is getting ready for bed when Dorota brings her the package. It's tiny, no bigger than her thumb; and her first thought is that someone has sent her a lipstick. Maybe some cosmetics company still thinks she's worth courting, despite all the gossip column inches revelling in her juicy broken fairytale.

It's wrapped in plain brown paper, and as she peels the tape away, a note falls out. She unfolds it and scans the chunky block capitals:

_READ ME_

She strips off the remaining paper to find that the object inside is a USB flash drive. As a rule, she takes security very seriously and knows perfectly well that one doesn't plug any old unsolicited drive into one's computer. But the _Alice in Wonderland_ vibe, pathetic as it is, has her intrigued. And after all, she does have anti-virus software. When she slots the drive into her laptop, the scan reports back a clean bill of health within a few seconds - because there's only one file on there.

It's a text document; it's three-hundred-and-twenty pages long; and as she starts to read it, the rain drumming ever faster against her window matches the beat of her heart.

**TBC**

_**It's the first time I've tried switching back and forth between D/B in one chapter, **__**hope it works. It felt necessary to get things moving...**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you all so much for the reviews and for sticking with this story! This chapter was really hard but also really satisfying to write - can't wait to hear what you think of it...**

* * *

Inside Out - Chapter Eight

Not seeing her is doing funny things to his head, and there are moments when he thinks he might have made her up.

"But," he says to himself, "if you had made her up, wouldn't you have made her more, you know, agreeable?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" himself replies. "But god knows, I am a glutton for punishment."

If he had made her up, they would probably still be speaking to each other. And they wouldn't be bound by any of those carefully measured codes of their four years of encounters. (If mingling at some high society gathering, there were rules governing the length and tone of their interactions. If conspiring against a common enemy, there was a detailed strategy, meticulously arranged. If venturing into a public space together, there were well-rehearsed procedures for avoiding detection. And if kissing each other (twice), there were logical grounds (twice) - negotiated at length (twice) - for doing so (twice).)

The rain is getting louder, like static from a giant speaker, with someone steadily turning up the volume knob. Unable to sleep, he's imagining a scenario where they pass each other in the street and the correct behavior has been drawn up by lawyers for the avoidance of doubt. Weirdly, even this is not a turn-off. He's lying back, laughing at himself for being such a deviant, when he hears the knock. It's stupidly late. Usually when this happens it means that either the delivery guy has got the wrong apartment, or that the idiot downstairs is locked out again. He's not in the mood to talk to anyone so he decides to ignore it. When he hears it again, he groans and sits up. _If it's a pizza_, he reasons, _I'm having it_. If it's the other option, well - helping someone might just make him feel like a worthwhile human being for a few minutes.

He traipses over to the door and swings it open and it's her. She's frowning and she looks tiny and her hair is soaking wet. If he were making her up, her hair wouldn't be soaking wet.

"Are you okay?" he asks, opening the door wider and resisting the urge to touch her arm as she saunters in.

"What do you think?", she says with a raised eyebrow. She scans the room like some kind of girly Terminator, locating every flaw and storing them away to use against him later. He instinctively smoothes down his messy hair, despite knowing that it's too late and this will have already made it onto her list of crimes.

He tells her to sit down while he goes to the bathroom to get her a towel. His mind is busy digesting the fact that she has had to voyage across the wet streets, blending with the aimless, the industrious, the intoxicated of the night, just to be here. He wonders what it means and, trying to suppress the surge of hope, he stares at his face in the mirror and reminds himself: _It will never happen_.

Returning with the towel, he sees that she's still frowning. She's now sitting on the couch, but on the very edge, like someone standing on the shore, afraid to dip their toes in because they might get cold. It's like limiting her contact with his world means she isn't really here, hasn't really stooped to this level. She takes the towel from him more graciously than he expects, and uses it to squeeze the water from the ends of her hair. As he tentatively sits down next to her, she fixes her eyes on him as if she's anticipating a sudden move. He smiles faintly.

"So," he begins. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She sighs heavily. "It's hard to explain."

"I could get you a pen and paper, if drawing it would be easier?"

"Just shut up, okay?" she barks.

"Okay," he says, sensing that the negotiations with which he's so familiar are about to commence.

She clears her throat and starts to fold the towel neatly. "So here's the state of affairs. It seems that I like you, and it's hard to explain because I don't know why, and I can't promise you anything, but there it is." She pauses expectantly.

He shakes his head. "I don't know why I like you either", he lies.

"So this is what I propose," she says. "Together we devise some course of action that allows us to explore this state of affairs, but one that avoids risk of harm to either party."

"I see", he says, trying to contain his smile. He doesn't know what's happening but whatever it is, his heart is a firework, in that moment just before it's lit, when it's getting ready to soar and everything is possibility.

"Well, can you please put forward some suggestions?" she says.

"Okay," he whispers, as he cups her wet head in his hands and crushes his lips against hers, feeling her resistance fall away as they soften into each other and everything else disappears and it's magnificent and it's more than he deserves because he's Dylan and she's Clair and how can this happen?

* * *

Blair stops reading for the first time since she opened the document many hours ago. It's not right any more. Not just the parts where he talks to himself, or his compulsive use of metaphors ('His heart is a firework'? 'Girly Terminator'? _Seriously, Humphrey?_) This whole chapter is not right.

It's not like page eighty-five, when she saw irrefutably that _Dylan_ was over _Sabrina_. Or page one-hundred-and-thirty-eight, when he admitted that he was capable of enjoying _Clair's_ company. Or page two-hundred-and-fifty-two, when she knew without a doubt that he, Dan, loved her as much as she, Blair, loves him. She had spent quite a long time re-reading page two-hundred-and-fifty-two, making herself feel ever more giddy, and she almost couldn't bring herself to leave it and carry on with the story. Now she wishes she hadn't carried on. How can he think that it - they - would be like _this_? That she would treat him so coldly, consenting to be with him only if it was handled like a business transaction? That she would show no passion or even affection for him or his world? How can he think that he deserves so little - even in his own fantasy?

Listening to herself, she remembers last time, when she jumped to the wrong conclusion without having read everything. Against her instincts, she convinces herself to ride out the remaining three chapters. They turn out to be even worse. The relationship between Dylan and Clair appears to be utterly one-sided. He adores her without smothering her, he helps her to re-build her confidence, makes her feel special in silly, adorable ways, and doesn't freak out when she behaves like a monster. Which is the problem. The girl is a monster. She takes all he has to give without ever returning it. She does nothing to demonstrate that he's important to her. She makes promises she doesn't keep, and the result is that she's never there when he most needs her. And most despicably, in the final chapter she leaves him for _Charlie Trout_, leaves him _without even letting him know_. It's horrendous. How can he think there's any universe where she would behave this way?

It's 4 a.m. and the rain is showing no signs of easing off, but she can't wait. She doesn't even bother to put on make-up or to change her clothes, opting instead to simply wrap a coat over her Ralph Lauren pyjamas.

During the journey, as she watches the lightning streak the sky and listens to the thunder boom, she marvels at the fact that he didn't think to include a storm in his version of this drama.

* * *

He's lying back, stuck trying to complete his feeble story (the one that's not about her), when he hears the knock. It's stupidly late. He's not in the mood to talk to anyone so he decides to ignore it. When he hears it again, he groans and sits up. _If it's a pizza_, he reasons, _I'm having it_.

He traipses over to the door and swings it open and it's her. She's frowning and she looks tiny and her hair is perfectly dry.

"Are you okay?", he asks. But before he can open the door any wider, she pushes him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards, barely having time to register how adorable he looks in his scruffy T-shirt and sweatpants, before she starts to rant.

"I have a problem with your scenario."

He puts his hands out defensively. "Which scenario would that - "

"First of all, why would I be wet? I own an expensive, well-functioning umbrella, plus an array of tasteful hats." She plucks one from her pocket as proof.

As he shakes his head, baffled, she curses herself for saying that - of all things - first. Operation Prove-Blair-Isn't-A-Monster was not supposed to start like this. _Focus on page two-hundred-and-fifty-two_, she tells herself. _Focus on page two-hundred-and-fifty-two_.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

Inside Out - Chapter Nine

Something about her is different.

Instinctively smoothing down his messy hair, he discreetly surveys her. She seems to be collecting herself and he can see some sort of shift, as if she's moving on to a new phase in a battle strategy.

"I'm sorry I pushed you just then." Her voice is steady now, and quiet enough that he becomes aware again of the rain cascading against the windows.

"I barely noticed." As it happens, he can still feel the imprint of her palm on his chest, as if she'd branded him; but stifling a detail like that is his current area of expertise.

Her eyes seem to inspect him from head to toe, stopping at his bare feet. It looks like she's about to wrinkle her nose, but she doesn't. Like she's about to say something, but she doesn't.

She's not making any move to take off her coat, which is interesting because she doesn't usually wait to be asked. He glances down and notices the lilac hems poking out from under the bottom of her coat. _Curiouser and curiouser_.

He clears his throat. "At the risk of making a huge fashion faux pas, I have to ask: are you wearing pyjamas?"

"It's the middle of the night. What did you expect?" She says it straight, with no trace of sarcasm.

"Honestly? I didn't expect pyjamas. Or pushing." He looks up at her. "Or you."

"No," she says, entering the room properly and peeling off her coat. "I know you didn't." There's still no edge to her voice. Draping the coat over a bar stool, she starts to pad slowly around the loft.

"Would you like a drink?", he asks, watching her inspect the room.

"No thank you," she responds politely, as if they're meeting for the first time.

As she runs a finger along the counter, he's trying not to notice the thin fabric grazing her body. He's trying not to think about why it doesn't seem to be bothering her that she's dressed like this in his presence. Gradually she proceeds further into the room. Spotting a pair of gold sandals, he sees her flinch.

"Jenny," he says, by way of explanation.

Her eyes widen in horror.

"But she's out tonight," he adds hastily.

Her whole frame visibly relaxes and she says nothing more on the subject. She stops to look at a poster of an old punk band. She's still studying it as she starts to speak.

"When I do this..."

"Do what?"

"Observe your environment."

"Oh." He feels enormously awkward, standing here in the middle of his own home, dishevelled, sleep-deprived and clueless.

She turns round to where he's standing. "When I do this, you think I'm just looking for flaws?" There's something in her tone that he's not used to. Something soft.

"I... well, your track record..."

"You think I'm compiling a list of crimes right now?"

He's about to reply when he pauses to process her words. She's quoting him. _Welcome back, panic, my old friend._ "I didn't think you read that far?"

"I didn't. Until just now."

"Wait, you still have it? I just assumed you'd deleted it. You didn't seem to be a fan - "

"Oh I deleted it. But it came looking for me again tonight. It's like it really doesn't want to die."

Her words are punctuated by a growl of thunder, and for a moment their eyes lock as they share the feeling of being caught in some corny melodrama.

"Where did you get it?", he asks, queasiness rising.

"I don't know. A mystery sender."

He takes a step forward. "Blair, I swear it wasn't me. I was - "

"Well duh." She looks instantly regretful and composes herself again. "I mean, you said it being read was your nightmare. And that you'd deleted it anyway."

He rubs his forehead. "So someone else had it? God, I must be setting some kind of record in erroneous sending of secret documents."

He quickly steps over to the coffee table and opens his laptop - partly so that he can investigate this latest revelation, mostly as a way of postponing the rest of their conversation; but as he's about to switch it on, her arm reaches over and snaps it shut. For a moment her shoulder brushes against his, causing him to close his eyes for slightly too long. He prays she didn't see.

"Humphrey. It doesn't matter," she says plainly.

He can't look at her. "But who - "

"I've read it now," she says, in a tone that's almost - _but it can't be?_ - tender.

"You have." She's not throwing things. So he can't help but wonder. Somehow he manages to raises his eyes to hers. "So you're... okay with it?" he ventures.

"God no," she exclaims, and in that instant she's the old Blair again.

"Oh," he murmurs, dejected.

She squeezes her eyes shut and groans deeply. "No, I mean... ugh, why can't I do this right?"

"What?" he asks nervously.

She folds her hands together. "It's just that, like I said, I have a problem with your scenario."

He's not really hearing her. He's fixated on the part where she knows and she's not okay with it. "I'm sorry, Blair."

"For what?"

"For all of it."

"Why?"

_Why does she want to subject him to this?_ "Because."

Then silence. Silence that tears around the loft, springing off the surfaces, bouncing against the ceiling and coming to rest as a rough pounding against his head.

What if neither of them ever speaks again and -

"Because of how you feel about me?", she says suddenly, her eyes wide.

"Yes," he blurts out.

"Do you feel the same way as Dylan?"

"Yes." It feels so good to say it. He can't stop. "Except more. There weren't always words for it."

_That's it then. Everything is over. This is the last time she'll ever be here.  
_

"Well then, I'm here to tell you that things would not have turned out the way you wrote it."

He can't answer, but she seems to be expecting this eventuality.

"You see, there wouldn't be negotiations," she declares, as she settles onto the couch. She looks up at him expectantly, indicating for him to join her. He approaches tentatively and, lowering himself to a seated position, he keeps a greater distance between them than under normal circumstances. She doesn't stop looking at him during the entire awkward manoeuvre.

"And I wouldn't sit on the edge. See?" It's true that she's sitting back and making herself clearly very comfortable. She curls her legs underneath her, revealing her ankles, and he feels like a character in a Victorian novel, stirred by this unexpected sight.

"I would dip my toes in fully," she continues. "I mean, the water might not even be cold."

"That's a good point", is the best he can muster.

She gazes at him, eyes full of meaning. "And it wouldn't be hard to explain."

"What wouldn't?"

"What I'm doing here."

She shifts closer to him and his heart lurches.

"It wouldn't be hard to explain why I like you."

_Where are his lungs again?_ "You do?"

"Uh huh. When you think I'm looking around for flaws, you're wrong. If I look like I'm taking notes, that's sort of true, but it's usually notes on how perfect everything feels. Did you know it's always just the right temperature in here?"

He shakes his head. "You're here for the climate?"

She ignores him. "And when we watch a movie, you always set the volume exactly right, so I don't have to adjust it after it's started."

"A hidden talent, I admit." If he doesn't say these things, these lame things, then they'll just be sitting here, staring at each other, both of them dressed for bed, while she tells him why she _likes_ him. And that's definitely too much to take in right now.

"And there's page two-hundred-and-fifty-two." _Can Blair Waldorf blush? Is that scientifically possible?_

"Of what?"

"Of your book, you id-" and she stops herself, screwing her eyes shut again.

Panic washes over him once more, and it shows. "I don't remember exactly what happened on every page."

She takes his hand and instantly he's back in a Victorian novel, except this time he thinks he's going to swoon like some pitiful heroine. "It's the part about parentheses. How you thought _us_ was in parentheses. But then you realized everything else was." _Blair Waldorf cannot be giddy, right?_

Her face changes without warning, becoming solemn. "And I would be able to promise you something, actually. I would be able to promise you that if I ever decided to leave you, I'd have a conversation with you about it."

"I know." He nods fervently. "Of course you would."

"So why did you write it that way?", she implores, her voice charged with hurt.

"Because it was easier."

"Easier how?" Her voice is tiny.

"Easier for me to handle. After picturing me and you, well... it wasn't easy to go back to the real world. You know, the one where you were engaged to royalty."

"But even in your own fantasy, you had to screw yourself over?" He has never seen her look so distressed.

"I had to force myself to get over it. I had to punish myself by imagining the worst, by just severing it."

"So you don't think I'm a monster?"

"No, Blair. I really don't." He wants to reach out and touch her face but he's still too dazed.

"Oh thank god."

He can feel, through the conduit of her hand, all the tension in her body evaporating. Realization dawns. "That's why you were being that way?"

"What way?", she asks indignantly.

"Like you're all zen. Like you weren't about to call me an idiot a minute ago. Or you don't want to snipe about Jenny. Or criticize the grammar in my book. Or like there isn't something around here you should be ridiculing."

She brightens. "Was I doing a good job?"

He grins at her. "It was like a very convincing episode of _The Twilight Zone_."

Sighing, she traces a finger along his wrist - and he decides to commit the sensation to memory, in case it's the greatest thing that ever happens to him.

"I just thought," she says gently, both of them looking at their interlocked hands, "that being like that would help convince you that I wouldn't be such a horrible girlfriend."

Words. He needs to say words now. She just said _girlfriend_ and now he isn't sure he remembers how to say words. But this is important. "I know. I know you wouldn't be. That wasn't you. That was all me."

"So I can be me again? I can tell you what I really think and you won't hate me?"

"I promise."

"Okay good." Her face lights up. "Because I need to tell you that your feet look disgusting. The concept of male grooming hasn't reached the outer boroughs yet?"

"That's it. Get it all out."

"And as for the book, I have quite a few vocabulary errors to point out. For example, in Chapter Four when you said Clair was _disinterested_, I can assure you that she was in fact _uninterested._"

"Does that cover everything?"

"No, there's more. I also wanted you to know that you're completely delusional, Humphrey."

He can't stop the dread from showing on his face.

"I mean it was simply preposterous," she says.

_Has this all been a joke?_ he asks himself.

"What was?" he manages to stammer.

She laughs and tightens her grip on his hand. "You thinking you'd be the one to make the first move."

And as she leans forward and starts to kiss him - one hand still in his, the other lacing itself into his hair - lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating their merged faces, their bodies leaning readily into each other, this altogether more exquisite scenario; but neither of them even notices it.

**TBC**

_**Oops! I had no idea this was going to turn so fluffy. I watched the end of 5x17 while writing this - so I was basically doomed. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, please review either way :)**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Thank you so much for the reviews, follows and favorites - they never fail to make me happy. So anyway, I decided it was about time to wrap this beast up. Took a while to get back into my intense denial bubble, but I got there in the end.**_

_**Hope you enjoy.**_

* * *

Inside Out - Chapter Ten

Soon (but not right now) Blair will come to realize some things about kissing Dan.

Soon (but not right now) she will realize that kissing him is the best and only way to get him to shut up. This will lead her to finally appreciate his reaction after the first experiment, in her foyer. For her, the intensity of that kiss had genuinely seemed to freeze time, and she could swear it was weeks later when he had opened his eyes and stepped back from her, speechless. At the time she had read his lack of words, combined with the bewildered look on his face, as disappointment. Humiliated (not to mention slightly out of her mind from the textbook-perfect first kiss she had just experienced, thank you very much), she had stormed away before he could even try to express himself. But soon she will understand that this reaction is something she can do to him, any time she wants, and she will love it. Sometimes she will even play with the idea of tormenting him, of detaching her lips from his just as they have settled into each other, purely so that she can see that look consume his face; but she won't be able to, because she really doesn't want to stop. Especially right now, as his fingers deftly undo the ivory buttons of her pyjama shirt, and onto each new inch of exposed skin he presses a deep kiss.

And that's another thing. Soon (but not right now) she will realize the answer to a question she'd posed to Serena long ago, a question that had distracted her way before she was ready to acknowledge it. The answer to that question will be: he is not _aggressive_, but _assertive_ - just like she had long hoped he would be (long before she had any business going around _hoping_ things about _Dan Humphrey_). She will conclude that while he may be an expert in the field of concealing his desires, once they have been revealed and reciprocated, all bets are off. Exhibit A: they way he's gripping her ass as his body presses hers into the couch - the same couch where in the not-so-distant past he had let her fall asleep on his shoulder, while being painstakingly careful not to invade her personal space. But right now? Right now he's thoroughly invading her personal space, and all she knows is that he'd better not stop.

Oh there's that too. Soon (but not right now) she will realize that there's almost nothing that will stop them once they've started. Not buzzing telephones; not knocks on doors; not shrieking alarm clocks; not breakfast being ready (or lunch, or dinner); not surprise visitors; not surly ex-lovers; not pint-sized pubescent girls with prying cell phones; not missing the start of the movie; not knowing he's going to miss a plane (funny story); not one of those New York blizzards that emerges out of nowhere. In fact, it'll take physical injury at the least.

She will realize all these things in the minutes and days and months ahead. But not right now. Because right now she is incapable of any kind of realization because she is all feeling - in her heart, in her stomach, in her _oh god don't stop_.

That's why, right now, she's ignoring the sound of ceramic crashing against wood, ignoring the fact that the room just got noticeably darker, ignoring the momentary tensing of his body; he's still kissing her just as perfectly, so what else matters? Until she happens to open her eyes, and sees that his are squeezed shut in a way implying not bliss but searing pain. She reluctantly moves her head away from his and in response he peeks back at her. Turning, she sees the broken lamp in pieces on the floor.

"Ouch", she whispers tenderly, touching her hand to his forehead.

"I'm okay", he lies. "I'm okay." The look on his face says he thinks that the world might end if they stop now. He leans forward again, kissing her neck, her shoulder, her breasts. She submits for a moment before grabbing his arms.

"Dan", she says firmly. "Don't be ridiculous."

"But - "

"Come on," she insists, hauling them both up. He follows her as she crosses the room, marvelling at how her efficient movements contrast with her dishevelled appearance - hair rumpled, shirt half-undone and threatening to slip off her shoulders. Once she's swiftly located some ice cubes, she takes his hand and leads him to the bathroom. She sits him on the edge of the bath as she fashions a compress out of a towel and, leaning over him, presses it to his forehead.

"Now keep it there. It'll reduce the swelling," she instructs him, not taking her hand away, and adding a kiss for good measure.

"Nurse Blair, huh?" he grins, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, don't look so surprised," she huffs. "I'm a good person, I'm compassionate. I watch Grey's Anatomy for more than just the love triangles."

He laughs softly. "That's not what I meant. It was just... I didn't think you could get any more sexy. And then you just did."

"Oh," she smirks, leaning further over him. "So this turns you on, huh?"

"This. That." He shrugs. "Everything". And he tugs her down onto his lap, his mouth smiling against hers as he finally undoes the last of the buttons and discards her pesky shirt. She tries and fails to hold onto the compress, letting it fall into the bath, freeing her hand to wind itself around his neck. In this small, awkward space, everything feels even hotter and more intimate than before and she keeps forgetting to breathe. She shivers as he runs his fingers down her bare spine, muttering into her neck:

"And by the way, I'm fully aware you're a good person. I'm totally into you, remember?"

"How much?", as she kisses his earlobe. "I forgot already."

He responds by lifting her up, much to her delight, and carrying her into the bedroom.

"Wow, you've got it bad," she concludes.

It's dawn now and the rain has stopped. They spill onto the bed, glowing in the gentle light from the window edges. He pauses for a moment to shift closer to her, and she hooks her leg over his as they smile at one another in that new, unambiguous way. No words are spoken. Eyes flare. Lips meet. Hands roam. Clothes fall. Limbs mesh.

Their spirits have put up with an agonizingly slow delay to become synchronized; their bodies make up for it, tuning in to each other with immediate certainty. As they surge against each other it feels like plunging into a warm ocean: first soft and luxurious, then frantic and so exhilarating that it makes them giggle. When they surface, light-headed, they cling to each other like survivors.

"That was incredible," he says finally, his face immersed in her hair.

"No", she replies, in a serious voice. "It was entirely credible."

* * *

When he wakes up it's past noon and the sun is streaming in and oh hey that's Blair in his bed. And she's wide awake, sitting up, eyes sparkling.

"I know who it was," she announces.

"Huh?" He props himself up, confused.

"I know who sent it to me." She is beaming, full of pride.

"Sent what?"

"Oh come on, you didn't hit your head that hard. The book, Dan. I figured it out."

The book. Thinking about the book still reminds him of the old, bad feelings. Of feeling lonely and drained and so jam-packed with self-loathing that he didn't even allow his fictional self a happy ending. He wonders if he will eventually be able to erase those feelings, to replace them entirely with the miracle that is her real-life response to what he wrote.

"Well, don't you want to know who it was?", she persists.

"Georgina? In the drawing room, with the candlestick?", he deadpans.

Her face turns sour. "Why would you say that? You are never, ever to say that name in a... bedroom scenario." She shakes her head. "Or anywhere. Just no."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry", he laughs, kissing her gently. "Tell me who it was. Please."

She pauses dramatically and then declares: "Eric. It had to be."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure." Not wanting her to feel disappointed by his scepticism, he strokes her shoulder as an act of peace. "I did think of that but... he's really not the scheming type."

"But no-one else even knew it existed, right? And he cares about you."

He nods.

"So, I'm saying: case closed". She smiles with satisfaction.

"Maybe". He shrugs, happy that they're done talking about this. "Oh and by the way, good morning." And as he leans over to kiss her, they hear footsteps passing outside the room. He pauses, hovering over her, alarm in his eyes.

Blair sighs. "She'll have to get used to me."

He likes that. But he recognizes that it's more than a little optimistic. "I don't think you two are ready for each other yet," he says firmly, climbing out of the bed.

"Where are you going?", she hisses.

"I can't just hide in here forever," he says, quickly throwing on yesterday's clothes.

"Why not?"

He kisses the top of her head. "I'll only be a second."

Shutting the door, he emerges to find Jenny eating a bowl of cereal.

"Hey", he says nonchalantly.

"Hey", she replies, eyes narrowing. "How's it going?"

He stretches his arms above his head, just a casual guy, just performing the most casual gesture in the world. "Yeah good. Just chilling out. Y'know."

"Uh huh," she says. And then, yelling past him at the door: "Hi Blair!"

He almost jumps. "How did you...?"

"Because I'm not an idiot." She rolls her eyes. "There's the fancy pyjamas on the bathroom floor." Her nose wrinkles. "Plus there's that." She points at the remains of the lamp. "Which... really don't want to know. Plus there's your face."

"What's wrong with my face?"

"Your eyes are all big. It's just obvious."

He accepts defeat and sits down next to her. "I know this is weird - ", he begins.

She interrupts him: "I'm just glad it all worked out."

There's something knowing in her voice and with disbelief he asks, "Wait, did you do something?"

"What do you mean?" Now it's her turn to act casual.

"Did you send something to Blair?"

"No." She sighs. "Not really." She looks away and then back at him. "Alright, I knew about the book."

And the whole convoluted story pours out. Of Jenny overhearing him and Eric discussing Blair's reaction to reading the first chapter ("What? Overhearing is not eavesdropping.") Of Jenny harassing Eric to tell her everything, until he finally caved and admitted he had a copy (he'd sneakily e-mailed it to himself in the moments before Dan deleted it - because he was sure Dan would eventually want it back, and because "Friends don't let friends obliterate their own works of literature"). Of her pilfering Eric's 'phone and sending herself the file ("Look, there was some manipulating to be done and he wasn't going to do it").

Dan is starting to feel exhausted by what sounds like the plot of one of those glossy teen soaps that Jenny adores (and he pretends he's not drawn to), the ones that think they're being Shakespearean when actually all they're doing is smashing one drama into another until it's all just a great big pile-up of nothing. He's also wondering how many people have read the damn book.

She deciphers his worries immediately. "Oh I didn't read it. Do_ not_ want to know all the gory details", she says hurriedly.

"Well, thanks for that."

"And by the way, it's really cool that you wrote a book." She punches his shoulder. "Even one about _that_."

"Again, thanks." But this time he says it more like a question.

"But yeah, I didn't send it to her. I wasn't quite ready to enable this - this _thing_ - myself. But I do want you to be happy."

"So it wasn't you?"

And that's when Blair appears behind them in his shirt and sweatpants and - not one to be ashamed of eavesdropping - says, in a voice implying that this is all so obvious that she might keel over from boredom: "You didn't send it, but you put it in the hands of someone who you knew couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it."

Dan thinks he gets it; and when he sees the blush spreading across Jenny's face, he's certain.

* * *

He makes the call.

"Hello?", says the voice on the other end.

"Hi Nate," Dan says. And then, "Thank you."

"Oh so it worked, huh? Well, you're welcome," he says with a laugh.

"I'm sorry you had to get involved in this whole weird thing."

"No problem, man. I was getting impatient anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, a person would have to be pretty dumb to not see that you're totally perfect for each other."

Hearing someone else say it - someone who, it turns out, is definitely not dumb - makes Dan feel so happy that all he can do is smile.

"Be good to each other," says Nate in a serious tone.

"Deal."

"And by the way, I didn't read it. Do_ not_ want to know all the gory details", he says.

Dan makes a mental note that he has a favor to return. (Not long from now, he will enlist Blair to help him, and her delight in executing their first scheme as a couple will prevail over her misgivings about the scheme itself; and Operation Jenny/Nate will be a resounding success.)

* * *

They don't see each other every day. They don't have to. Their lives loop gracefully around each other and nothing is taken for granted.

Blair goes back to school with a vengeance and falls in love with her architecture class. She's not the top student; but instead of quitting the class or terrorizing the teacher, she accepts second place without seeing it as a failure. She also gets an internship at a design magazine. Sometimes she isn't even the last one to leave the office, and it feels okay. More than okay.

She tries to convince Dan to send _Inside_ to a publisher, to forget all the bad associations and let the world know what he has to say. But he tells her no. Because honestly, it isn't what he wants to say any more.

Instead, he keeps working on the new story, the one that's not about her. It's very different than his previous work - there's something more open, almost innocent, in his writing. He doesn't assume the worst about the characters, doesn't compel them to destroy each other and themselves. And then one day, he realizes that he had everything upside down, inside out. Because this story is absolutely about her. It's about her, about them, about what is and what could be. About what he wants and hopes for and deserves. Not the lies of the past, not who screwed over who, not why this or that betrayal went down, not how life's been so unfair to poor little Dan. Everything that came before simply doesn't matter. It has no bearing on who they are or who they're going to be. This story is about the real them. No deception or fear. Pure and simple.

The day he finishes it, he asks her to read it.

"I don't want to," she says.

"Okay," he replies, trying not to sound rattled.

She lays her head on his shoulder. "I want you to read it to me," she instructs him.

So he does.

.

THE END

* * *

_**Oh my lord it's over! Well I never. All I want to do now is watch a show where Nate is a match-maker. Anyways, thank you thank you thank you for reading, and please let me know what you thought of it.**_

_**Update: (SPOILER WARNING)**_

_**Am a bit in shock that in S6 Dan has written a book called 'Inside Out'. If this means my mind in some way works like those of the demon GG writers, I am scared.**_


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